


everything i needed

by brothebro



Series: Jaskobor the illustrious [2]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst and Humor, Apologies, Bickering, Crack Treated Seriously, Dialogue Heavy, F/M, Guilt, Immortal Jaskier | Dandelion, Imprisonment, Jaskobor AU, Mage Jaskier | Dandelion, No Beta, POV Alternating, Self-Sacrifice, and Jaskier love Yenna, prison break - Freeform, yennefer loves jaskier
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-03
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-16 19:28:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29829774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brothebro/pseuds/brothebro
Summary: Jaskier tilts his head, the cold metal bar of the dingy cell feeling unpleasantly cold against the bare skin of his forehead. He straightens his posture only to tilt his head again the clang of the metal meeting skull deafening in his ears.“Stop this!” Yennefer groans next to him, blowing a dirty matted strand of hair from her face.“We’ve been stuck here for a month, Yenna. A month!” he points to the scratches he inflicted with his shackles on the damp, moss-covered stone wall of their temporary home.“I am aware,” she huffs, “But breaking your empty skull on the bars won’t accomplish anything, Jaskier.”
Relationships: Jaskier | Dandelion/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Series: Jaskobor the illustrious [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2053302
Comments: 15
Kudos: 40





	1. damp dark dungeon

**Author's Note:**

> hello hello! This has been in my wips for a mini eternity! 
> 
> hope you enjoy it!

Jaskier tilts his head, the cold metal bar of the dingy cell feeling unpleasantly cold against the bare skin of his forehead. He straightens his posture only to tilt his head again the clang of the metal meeting skull deafening in his ears.

  
  


“Stop this!” Yennefer groans next to him, blowing a dirty matted strand of hair from her face.

  
  


“We’ve been stuck here for a month, Yenna. A month!” he points to the scratches he inflicted with his shackles on the damp, moss-covered stone wall of their temporary home.

  
  


“I am aware,” she huffs, “But breaking your empty skull on the bars won’t accomplish anything, Jaskier.”

  
  


He knows this, of course, but the unexpected stay in whatever dungeons Fringilla’s troupes brought them to after the battle on Sodden hill – and how did they even find them in that abandoned shack anyway? – has been for the better part, incredibly dull and boring.

  
  


What’s the use of capturing them and never bothering to interrogate them or torture them, or anything? Not that he would like to be torture – no – he’s quite averse to needless and excessive violence, especially given his rather unfortunate past misdeeds.

  
  


“I’m afraid I’ll go insane with boredom,” he sighs, ignoring Yennefer’s jab at his intelligence.

  
  


“As if you weren’t already insane, Irion.”

  
  


“Yenna, please. Irion Stregobor is dead, and for a good reason too. Please, don’t mention that name again – especially here, in front of our enemies,” he whispers and nods to the lone sleeping guard.

  
  


“Oh, please, Marick over there hasn’t been awake since… well, since never really. I don’t understand why they bother guarding this place if he’s always asleep. Ain’t that right, Marick?” she yells the last question to the man, who flinches momentarily before he slides further down his chair – and how uncomfortable this position looks, gods – and releases a pent up snore.

  
  


“See?” Yennefer sighs.

  
  


“We should think of an escape plan, then, darling,” Jaskier proposes for the hundredth time this past month, and Yennefer groans. “Oh, come on! There must be a way out of here!”

  
  


“I admire your tenacity,” she says dryly, “Tell me when you find a way to bypass fucking dimeritium bars and shackles.”

  
  


“I’m positive my shackles aren’t made of dimeritium,” he retorts, “They think me a hedge-witch, the fools.”

  
  


“Face the truth Jask. Your chaos is depleted, as is mine. We aren’t leaving this place anytime soon.”

  
  


* * *

  
  


They aren’t going anywhere indeed, approaching their three month anniversary of imprisonment as they are.

  
  


Yennefer feels defeated for the first time in forever. She’s still not quite sure how the fuck Nilfgaard sniffed them out, in the Velen marshes of all places. They should have been relatively safe in Keira’s safe house until they managed to recover a bit of their chaos and fled to their respective houses.

  
  


And yet…

  
  


It’s been a shock – and that’s the understatement of the century – learning that her lover and good friend has been a mage all along. And not just any mage; Irion fucking Stregobor. One of the most controversial personages of the Brotherhood that disappeared off the face of the earth some three and a half decades ago.

  
  


He’s never personally harmed her, aside from hiding his magical nature from her, of course, but still… She’s heard what he did in Blaviken regarding the princesses of the Black Sun and what consequently led to the acquisition of a very ill worded moniker for Geralt of Rivia.

  
  


“Why did you do it, Jaskier?” she asks him one morning – or at least she thinks it’s morning from the crisp air and scarce light coming through their tiny window.

  
  


“Pardon?” he questions, mouth half-full with stale bread and porridge, dripping on his now, quite full beard.

  
  


“Blaviken.”

  
  


He chokes on his food, coughing uncontrollably until the offending piece of bread unclogs his airway and lands several metres in front of them.

  
  


“I’d mistranslated a prophecy,” he answers truthfully, locking eyes with her. “Thought I was doing the world a favour, ridding it from cursed evil princesses. I was, evidently wrong, and when I realised it I kind of-”

  
  


“You tossed your past aside and started anew.” Yennefer of all people understands on a personal level what it means to want to erase everything before a certain point in time. She closes her eyes, the image of the still babe of the late queen of Aedirn buried in a shallow sand grave, vivid before her. She’d promised herself that day she’d stop serving monsters.

  
  


He nods. “Had I realised sooner what an absolute bastard I’ve been all those years I’d never have gone through with this research. I’d never had involved poor Geralt in this mess. And yet, I fucked up beyond repair,” he sighs. “I’m quite surprised you know,” he says with a small smile, “that you’re speaking to me at all.”

  
  


“You’re a fool,” she tells him, “Bard or sorcerer, always a fool.” She contemplates her next words. “I don’t know why, you utterly ridiculous man, but I seem unable to hate you.”

  
  


“I love you too, Yenna,” he scoots closer and she shoves him weakly, without real strength, from her side.

  
  


Beyond all reason, her heart still beats strongly for Jaskier. Her treacherous, treacherous heart.

  
  


* * *

  
  


“I’d murder someone in cold blood for a bath,” Jaskier cries loudly, his once bright doublet stinky and muddy with all kinds of filth. The single bucket of cold water they bring them once a week is barely enough to maintain the barest hygiene, enough to not die from some elaborate kind of fungus.

  
  


Agh. He feels disgusted by his own stench for fuck’s sake. And he wants to bloody shave that fucking ridiculously long beard too.

  
  


“Six months Yenna! Six fucking months and we’re still here!”

  
  


“I know, you hermit-looking fool.”

  
  


“You don’t look any better either, darling. I’ll probably have to snip those dreadlocks off your scalp when we get out,” he snipes.

  
  


“I count on it,” she snorts a laugh, “I think we have lice.”

  
  


“Oh, I’m certain we do,” Jaskier scratches a particularly itchy spot behind his left ear. “I don’t understand though, love. Why does nobody ever come for us? Why do they keep us here if they don’t intend to use us somehow?”

  
  


“Perhaps we’re meant to be leverage of some sort. Perhaps they simply don’t give a single fuck about us and they just want us locked away.”

  
  


“That doesn’t make any sense, Yenna. We destroyed their army. We are, quite real, still alive and kicking, threats. They should have killed us already!”

  
  


“I know,” she sighs.

  
  


As if Jaskier’s little rant was magic meant to summon their captors, Fringilla appears descending the stone stairs to their small little prison, her heels clicking loudly on the stone steps.

  
  


“Look what you did, Jaskier,” Yennefer shakes her head in mock-disappointment, “You actually managed to lure in the fucking mage of Nilfgaard herself with your incessant whining. Congratulations, honey.”

  
  


“Yennefer,” Fringilla greets, nose raised and expression cold, “I’ll be taking your little bard from you for a little while,” she informs them.

  
  


Oh, fuck – as Geralt would so eloquently say in this situation.

  
  


The sorceress flicks her fingers and Marick snaps awake but not quite, his eyes glassy and unfocused, and he unlocks their cell, putting Jaskier in heavy dimeritium cuffs.

  
  


“Was that really necessary?” Jaskier says under his breath, busy being manhandled and dragged towards an unknown destination.

  
  


It’s nice, stretching his legs after so long of being able to walk only in small circles in their cell.

  
  


“Yes, it was,” Fringilla responds and he snaps his attention to her. “We are aware you have some magic talent Jaskier. Wouldn’t want you portaling out of here, now, would we?”

  
  


Of course, she knows. Fucking hell. She probably saw him in Sodden, after all. Or, she heard the rumours from when he portaled himself in the middle of Oxenfurt after the incident on the Dragon Mountain. Or both.

  
  


“Fuck’s sake,” Jaskier sighs.

  
  


Fringilla brings him to a relatively clean almost empty room, save for a metal table propped in the middle of it. She orders the still hazed Marick to strap him on the table, and Jaskier’s heart hammers in his chest thinking of all the unimaginable things Fringilla might do to him.

  
  


Is this how his experiment subjects felt when he studied them?

  
  


He feels bile rising to his mouth, his stomach twisting and turning from fear.

  
  


Fucking perfect.

  
  


“This is how I die,” a deranged chuckle leaves his throat before he chokes on his tears.

  
  


“Don’t be silly,” the sorceress purrs, dragging a long nail on his sternum that makes the little hair on the nape of his neck rise. “You’re no use to us dead, bardling. Now,” she procures a vial of something nasty from her back and wiggles it, the dark green thick liquid sloshing inside it, in front of his face, “you’re going to be a good boy and tell us where to find your witcher.”

  
  


Even if he knew he wouldn't tell her.

  
  


“Is a truth serum really necessary?” he finds himself asking, “For you see, I have no bloody idea where not-my-witcher is. He’s his own witcher, busy witchering about the whole Continent.”

  
  


Fringilla clicks her tongue and orders Marick to hold Jaskier’s head so she can administer the serum.

  
  


It tastes as vile as he remembers it to be, when he was the one brewing it. Melitele, it takes everything he has not to retch right there, lying on his back, and choke on his own vomit.

  
  


“Where is Geralt of Rivia?” Fringilla asks, tone commanding.

  
  


“I’ve no fucking clue,” Jaskier spits out.

  
  


“Does he have Cirilla?”

  
  


“No idea.”

  
  


“Where would he go if he had her?”

  
  


Shit. The woman’s smarter than he gave her credit for. The words threaten to spill from his mouth and Jaskier bites his tongue to prevent himself from speaking. But the potion’s urge is too strong to resist.

  
  


“Kaer Morhen,” he says with a trembling voice, and he hates himself for being so fucking weak. For being unable to hold his tongue.

  
  


“And where would Kaer Morhen be, exactly?”

  
  


Jaskier whimpers.

  
  


“Where is it, barding? Speak!”

  
  


“I- I’m not sure,” he says and bites his lip to stop himself from giving away too much information. “Somewhere in Kaedwen. I swear that’s all I know!”

* * *

  
  


Fringilla brings Jaskier back in their shared cell in far less time than Yennefer expected. He doesn’t look beaten and bruised and she’s thankful for that. He's uncharacteristically silent though, his eyes downcast and red from crying, and that’s a reason for concern.

  
  


When they’re alone again Yennefer scoots close to her bard-sorcerer and leans her head on his shoulder. “What’s wrong?”

  
  


“She truth-serum-ed me, the bitch. Probably knew she couldn’t reach my mind with magic.”

  
  


“Oh, shit, no. What did she ask?”

  
  


Jaskier sighs, and worries at his lower lip, “About Geralt, where he is, if he has his child-surprise, where she can find him. You know, the whole charade.”

  
  


“What the fuck do they want with him?”

  
  


“Fuck if I know, Yenna. They probably want to find his child-surprise. She’s the crown-princess of Cintra you know.”

  
  


She’s heard as much from rumours flying around the various courts. Why the fuck would they go as far as to hunt Geralt down for one measly ex-princess though? What does Nilfgaard want with her? They already have Cintra. With Calanthe’s death and the citadel in flames, they’ve secured the kingdom for emperor Emyr.

  
  


“Thing is,” Jaskier says, choking on a sob, and she runs her fingers through his dirty hair, trying to soothe him, “I don’t think I’ll be able to live with myself if I fail Geralt again, Yenna. I- I fucked up plenty for multiple lifetimes already.”

  
  


“Hey, Geralt is smart. They won’t catch him,” she lies.

  
  


“What if they do? What then?”

  
  


“We’ll find a way to get out of here together and go save the fool.”

  
  


He snorts a humourless laugh, “Right. In case you forgot, we’re literally inside a dimeritium cage, darling.”

  
  


“Mmm. I know, shithead. But still, they don’t think you powerful enough to cuff you in the cell, like me. And we could use it to our advantage.”

  
  


“Honey, please. A bit of my chaos might be back, after sitting idly in this shithole for so long, but it’s not nearly enough to get us out of here. I’m good at illusions, games of the mind, not-” he gestures animatedly, “-destruction. And you know full well there’s an anti portal ward here somewhere. I can feel it.”

  
  


“Mind control Marick to unlock the door.”

  
  


“Not enough chaos, darling. Not enough. Maybe in a few months.”

  
  


* * *

  
  


He’s grown tired of the endless cycle of sleep, stale bread, porridge, and the occasional fruit. He’s so tired of the big empty dungeon that seems to be reserved only for Yenna and him. He’s even given up scratching the walls to keep count of the time passed. Must be close to a year now, he reckons.

  
  


He hates seeing his Yenna so thin, as a result of their captor’s bad hospitality. Well, at least they give them a bath now and then. A proper warm bath no less. They probably figured they would die from some sort of filth induced infection and they couldn’t let it happen.

  
  


It’s not much, but it’s something.

  
  


Still, it’s unclear why they keep Yenna and him all alone in a dungeon, only with the occasional check-up from Fringilla to see if they’re in good health.

  
  


Sometimes, rarely, the sorceress of Nilfgaard takes Yennefer to the other room and returns her after a while, with not much of a change on her. And when asked about it, Yennefer claims Fringilla only wants to ‘catch up’ and tell her of Nilfgaard’s glorious expansion. Why she does that is a mystery to them both.

  
  


Nonetheless, as far as prison stays go, it could be indefinitely worse.

  
  


Jaskier’s chaos is back in bits and pieces, and he seems to be able to cast very simple spells inside the dimeritium cell, enough to wipe the grime off their tattered clothes or to give them both some well due hair brushing. However, no spell of his can bypass the metal poles of the cell – and how inconvenient is it, really – and thus they are stuck indefinitely in said cell.

  
  


Winter must be nearing if the chilly gusts of air coming through their tiny barred window are any indication. A warm sweater would be perfect, maybe a cup of herbal tea and a nice thick book to read. Sitting next to a big window, curled up on a reclining chair, listening to the pitter-patter of rain.

  
  


“-kier,” he barely registers Yennefer calling him, “Goddammit, Irion,” she says and he snaps his attention to her, “You don’t respond to your current name but you respond to your dead one? Really, Jaskier? I’ve been calling you for several minutes now.”

  
  


“Ah, uh, sorry. I was daydreaming. Is anything the matter, dear?”

  
  


“Someone is coming to visit.”

  
  


Ah, she’s right. Faint footsteps echo in the empty dungeon.

  
  


“Fringilla?” he asks, “But that can’t be, she isn’t due a visit for another two weeks.”

  
  


“Don’t be stupid. Fringilla always wears heels. Does this sound like heels to you?”

  
  


It does not. If anything it sounds, soft and thumpy instead of clickity-clacky, like multiple footsteps belonging to men wearing leather-sole boots. Jaskier brings a finger before his lips to signal to remain silent and Yennefer rolls her pretty eyes exasperated.

  
  


Soon enough, the footsteps sound louder, clearer, and the figures of three men carrying an unconscious – or possibly even dead – body, make their appearance at the top of the staircase.

  
  


“Oh fun,” Jaskier grumbles, “a cellmate. Now we won’t be able to have sex in peace.”

  
  


“Jaskier,” Yennefer scolds.

  
  


“Ja...skier?” a familiar deep baritone croaks weakly from the stairs.

  
  


Oh, bloody fuck. The one person, Jaskier wished to avoid being jailed with. The one fucking person in the entire Continent it hurts more than anything to see right now.

  
  


Gods, they caught Geralt.

  
  


“Melitele, why me? Who have I wronged to deserve this?” Jaskier whines.

  
  


“Many people,” Yennefer deadpans before she grins at him.

  
  


“I am aware, darling. It was a figure of speech,” he retorts before the dreadful feeling of guilt returns watching the soldiers clad in black and gold carry a heavily wounded Geralt to Yennefer and his cosy little prison cell.

  
  


Fucking hell. Geralt looks like death. His left leg is twisted the wrong way, half his body a sickening purple and yellow from beating. There are deep man-inflicted cuts on his bare forearms, crusted with congealed blood. Jaskier feels bile rising to his mouth. He’s never witnessed Geralt so close to death’s doorstep before. Save perhaps Blaviken.

  
  


Jaskier stares, stunned, as the soldiers deposit Geralt on one of the wooden planks that serve as a – very uncomfortable – bed, toss a bucket of apples Yennefer’s way and a jug of fresh water, and leave without a word, locking the cell’s door as they do.

  
  


Screams echo as they disappear after reaching the top of the staircase and Jaskier shares a wide-eyed look with Yennefer.

  
  


Moments later, Marick descends from the very same flight of stairs, wiping his blade on a blood-drenched piece of cloth. He sits on his usual chair, glances towards them once before he settles comfortably-uncomfortable and falls asleep.

  
  


“What the fuck...” Yennefer breathes out, her heartbeat hammering loud enough in her chest for Jaskier to hear it. (Well, of course, he wouldn’t be able to hear them if he hadn’t had his head pressed on her breasts, hugging her tightly to drown the screams of terror that replay in his mind again and again).

  
  


“I guess we now know why we only have the dearest mister-apparently-murderer, Marick, as our warden and guard, Yenna.”

  
  


She nods and speaks no more of this, moving towards Geralt’s cot.

  
  


“Come here, Jask.”

  
  


“I think I’ll pass.”

  
  


“Jaskier,” Yennefer clicks her tongue, “He needs healing, and out of the two of us only you have access to chaos. Think you can patch him up a bit? He’s burning up.”

  
  


“Shit, cock- a- Alright,” he stumbles on his feet rushing to get to the side of the man that probably hates him more than anything in the world but who Jaskier can’t allow himself to leave him to die.

  
  


Geralt looks even worse up close and something twists in Jaskier’s guts. He gathers whatever chaos he can muster, the earth depleted from the abundance of dimeritium in the area, and whispers an incantation in Elder. He watches as Geralt’s wounds slowly start to close and fade, and he gestures to Yennefer to help him set the witcher’s leg right so that it won’t heal wrong- crooked. Geralt rasps for breath, tears running down the sides of his cheekbones.

  
  


Jaskier continues incanting the spell again and again, drawing in all the chaos available but it’s not enough, never enough and he fears that the witcher, his once friend, won’t live to see tomorrow. So Jaskier reaches within himself, drawing power from his stupidly long life, more and more, ignoring Yennefer’s pleas to stop – “You’ll kill yourself,” she tells him – until Geralt can breathe properly again. Until he’s calm- serene.

  
  


Jaskier falls to the grimy stone ground exhausted, eyelids feeling heavy and threatening to fall.

  
  


“You stupid, idiot bard,” Yennefer holds him tightly in an embrace and wipes with a hand the long strands of salt and pepper hair from his forehead. Wait. Salt and pepper? “Why did you use your life force to heal him completely? He’d been fine if you’ve just- just sped up the process a bit!”

  
  


“’xcept he w’dn’t,” Jaskier slurs, tongue feeling heavy in his mouth, “p’rced l’ng,” he attempts to explain.

  
  


“Pierced lung?” Yennefer sounds mortified.

  
  


He nods once before his eyes shut and sleep embraces him.

  
  



	2. confessions and escapes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier comes clean about his past ;)

Yennefer rubs soothing circles on her temples, her attention devoted to the sleeping bard-sorcerer on her lap and to Geralt on the cot beside her.

  
  


What a mess. Now with all three of them imprisoned, Geralt, luckily, is no longer at the brink of death and Jaskier- well, Jaskier having channelled his world-famous stupidity, hurting himself in order to save Geralt, is sleeping exhausted on her lap.

  
  


She traces a finger gently, on Jaskier’s newly acquired crow’s feet. He’s going to be so mad when he sees his reflection. Though Yennefer must admit he looks dashing either way; young and baby-faced or… older and silver-foxy.

  
  


She leans forward, planting a small kiss on Jaskier’s salt and pepper hair. Her self-sacrificing fool.

  
  


“Yen?” Geralt croaks settling on a semi-sitting position on the cot. He looks a lot better; his skin unblemished as if he was never beaten black and blue by the Nilfgardians, his golden eyes devoid of dark shadows under them.

  
  


She brings a finger in front of her lips, nodding to the sleeping sorcerer on her lap. “Let’s not wake him, shall we?” she whispers in impossibly low volume.

  
  


“Who-”

  
  


“Not my place to tell you.”

  
  


“You love him.” It’s not a question.

  
  


She nods regardless.

  
  


Geralt smiles, the corners of his eyes crinkling ever so slightly, “I’m sorry,” he says, “For everything.”

  
  


At this point, she’s not phased in the slightest by Geralt’s truthful apology. She’s had time to think what it meant for her to be bonded to him by the djinn’s wish, to have her choice taken away from her so suddenly and not even know it for years.

  
  


It seems that being imprisoned for nigh a year, together with a moral disaster of a man, really puts things into perspective. _Or lowers one’s standards of ethics significantly._ Time for heart to heart conversations was the norm now, with Jaskier as her cellmate. And gods, that man had a lot of dirty laundry to air; so many terrible horrible acts committed in the name of research. A good-natured wish upon a djinn really paled in comparison.

  
  


“It’s all in the past,” she says, meeting Geralt’s golden eyes, and watching as his face morphs from surprise to acceptance. “How are you feeling?”

  
  


“Like I was run over by a whole caravan,” he huffs, “But alive.”

  
  


“You _did_ almost die,” she says and runs her fingers through Jaskier’s long hair, detangling deftly some tenacious knots. He stirs a bit at the contact and curls further into her lap, snoring softly. “Thank him when he wakes up, will you? He gave his life force to save you, the _fucking_ idiot.”

  
  


“You’re the idiot,” Jaskier mumbles in his sleep and Yennefer has to contain herself not to laugh.

  
  


“Why would he…” Geralt trails off, his brow furrowing as if he realises he’s missing a crucial detail. His eyes scan the limp form of the sorcerer and the crinkle at his brow deepens still.

  
  


“Just wait for him to wake up,” Yennefer rolls her eyes, “You’re gonna drill a hole on his back if you keep staring like that. And we can’t have that, he’ll never stop complaining.”

  
  


Geralt hums as he is wont to do when he runs out of things to say. There’s a long stretch of silence before he speaks again, “How long have you been here, Yen?”

  
  


“About a year,” she responds, “They got us after Sodden, found us hiding out in a safe house – he’ll tell you it was an abandoned shack if you ask him, but he’s prone to drama. Triss managed to get away, but we… we weren’t so lucky.”

  
  


“A year,” Geralt echoes, staring at the dark ceiling, and a sigh leaves his lips. “How come you didn’t escape if he had enough chaos-”

  
  


“He didn’t. Geralt I know you’re curious but you’ll have to ask him when he wakes up. Please.” Maybe she should… Ah, fuck it she’ll say it, let Jaskier be mad with her if he wants, “And one last thing, Geralt. Do try to keep an open mind alright? He’s _a lot_ to deal with.”

  
  


“Alright,” the witcher responds, confusion painted on his face.

  
  


* * *

  
  


Jaskier groans, his whole body feeling the strain of the previous reckless attempt at spellcasting. Ugh, he’s quite certain he overdid it and will be feeling the deep bone-aching absence of chaos for days- if not for weeks. And he’s not even sure if it worked; if he healed Geralt’s multiple lacerations and internal damage. He sure hopes he did.

  
  


He groans again and opens his eyes only to find himself staring into the pitch-black darkness of the night.

  
  


Great.

  
  


“Hey idiot,” Yennefer coos. She’s somewhere near, he can practically feel the warmth she radiates. “Took you long enough to recover.”

  
  


“How long?” he croaks, his mouth dry as the Nazair desert, “Water.”

  
  


“Over a full day,” Yennefer responds, bringing the pitcher to his hands. He won’t question how she’s able to see where the blasted thing is.

  
  


When his thirst is sated and his tattered chemise drenched with spilt water Jaskier says, “Shit.”

  
  


“Wait till you see yourself,” Yennefer teases, and he vaguely remembers strands of salt and pepper hair falling over his eyes before he passed out.

  
  


“Double shit. At least tell me that it’s indeed night and I haven’t gone blind too. Hmmm… Why does my voice sound so weird?” Hoarse, he sounds hoarse; that’s the word for it.

  
  


“It’s night,” Geralt’s baritone voice sounds from somewhere close. A sigh of relief leaves Jaskier’s lips; he’s glad the spell worked, considering that healing is not his forte.

  
  


“You’re not fun, witcher. Let me tease him a bit more,” Yennefer pouts – for she is pouting, Jaskier is certain.

  
  


“You- You, naughty sexy witch!” Jaskier splutters indignantly.

  
  


“ _Jaskier_?” Geralt’s breath hitches at the end of the question. “Fuck, is that _you_?”

  
  


“Can we please have this conversation when we can bloody see each other’s faces? Or do you perhaps prefer we do this in darkness? After all, I did --do-- intent to respect your wish and stay out of your hair, Geralt. And us three being locked in here together is pure coincidence, I swear on the one good thing I did in my life.”

  
  


“You did plenty of good things, Jaskier,” Yennefer snorts.

  
  


“Yeah… Not that I don’t appreciate you hoping in for my defence, but we both know this isn’t exactly true. In fact, it’s miles away from the truth. It’s as far away as Lan Exeter is from the city of Nilfgaard.”

  
  


“We talked about this; you’re not the person you used to be, Jaskier. Stop beating yourself over it,” Yennefer sighs.

  
  


She’s right of course, he resembles very little the monster that was Irion Stregobor, but that doesn’t mean he’s automatically forgiven for his past misdeeds. No, it’s going to take a lot of time until he --ever-- feels he can let it go.

  
  


“Darling…”

  
  


“Don’t _darling_ me, you fool.”

  
  


Geralt coughs once, reminding them that he’s in there with them. “Right,” he says. “Since I don’t see anyone sleeping tonight, there’s no reason why we shouldn’t continue this… talk. The sooner we sort this out, the more time we have to think of an escape plan.”

  
  


“There’s dimeritium in the bars,” Yennefer and Jaskier say in unison.

  
  


“But I suppose it’s as good a time as any to get everything out,” Jaskier says, “First of all, I apologise for everything and for not telling you I’m a Ban Ard trained mage. But above all, I apologise for Blaviken, Geralt.”

“Blaviken?” Geralt breathes out.

“Blaviken, Renfri, the whole shabang,” Jaskier gestures abstractly before curling into himself realising that Geralt can probably see him clearly despite the darkness, “Alright, allow me to rephrase it because I’ve got the feeling I fucked up again,” he sighs, mentally slapping himself for sounding so nonchalant over such a serious matter, “I was a self-righteous arse and I should never have done all those unethical, ahem, experiments, nor take advantage of your appearance there to clean up my mess. It was wrong – terribly egotistical – and I am truly sorry.”

“This is not a matter to be joking about, Jaskier,” Geralt growls, irritation apparent in his voice.

“Let him tell you the whole story, Geralt. You promised-”

"I'm afraid it's the truth," Jaskier breathes out, voice quivering, unsure. He feels his heart might explode in his chest from the pressure he feels. He stares towards Geralt's presumed direction, his eyes not yet properly adjusted to the darkness even though dawn is nearing and the barest light enters their shared cell, making human-shaped silhouettes appear amidst the veil of raven black.

"You can't be-" Geralt starts saying but Jaskier intervenes.

"Stregobor?" A peal of strained laughter leaves the sorcerer's lips, "the very same, I'm afraid. Though to be fair, Stregobor died with Blaviken; with Renfri."

"Was anything real? Was Jaskier real or just another glamour for you? Our friendship? Any of it?" Geralt asks and Jaskier hates how hurt he sounds, how betrayed.

"Jaskier is- I'm - I was Jaskier before Stregobor, before… I let chaos rule my life. I've- I've never been more genuine than when I was travelling with you, Geralt. Believe it or not, Stregobor was the glamour and the person you know as Jaskier was my true appearance. But that doesn't matter, does it?

The truth is, I omitted my past from you because I felt guilty. I followed you around because I wanted to right my wrongs. Grew to think of you as a dear friend, that much is true. But I realise now that this wasn't the way to go; the only thing I managed to do was to hurt you further, and --fuck-- I hate myself so much for it," he chokes back a sob that's been bubbling up in his throat. Νot the time to cry. Not now. "I won't ask for forgiveness, because Melitele knows I don't deserve it, but I do ask of you to at very least work with me -- with us-- to get out of here."

There's a long stretch of silence before anyone speaks again.

“ _Ah, fuck._ Don’t know if I can ever forgive you completely,” Geralt says, his voice barely a whisper, “but I do thank you for saving my life earlier.” The witcher pauses for a while, the silence heavy in the air, "You shouldn't have risked your life for me. I'd been fine with a few cuts and bruises," he says, "Believed you to have more self-preservation than that."

“You underestimate how far my self-loathing goes, witcher,” Jaskier laughs, before schooling himself to a serious expression, "I'd gladly do it ten times over. You're a far better man than I'll ever be, Geralt.

“Now,” Yennefer interjects, “I’m not going to tell you to stop spewing shit, Jaskier, because gods know that’s impossible-”

“Hey!”

“Don’t _hey_ me, you bastard, you almost killed yourself. Deliberately.” Yennefer sighs, “In any case, any ideas regarding the _grand escape_ are welcome.”

“How plausible do you think it is to beat up the guard and steal his keys?” Geralt asks.

* * *

They end up spending more time than they’d like to admit thinking of possible prison-break scenarios. Yennefer is tired of hearing them spout nonsense like: “beat up the obviously magically enhanced Marick who - presumably- slaughtered the guards that brought in Geralt” or the other brilliant idea her darling Jaskier had to use Geralt’s “witchery strength” to bend the bars. As if that’s even possible.

Geralt did try the last suggestion to be fair, to humour Jaskier, and of course, was not able to bend those things not even half an inch.

“It’s pointless,” Yennefer sighs, “If we don’t find a way to open my cuffs we’ll be here for all eternity.”

“Yeah,” Geralt presses his lips into a thin line, “There’s still the option to beat up Marick.”

“Yeah, no,” Jaskier scowls, “the man is a monster. No chance we’re going to risk your life. The only acceptable thing to do is to trick Marick into thinking you’re in need of medical attention and perhaps, and that’s stretching it, snatch the keys from his belt while he’s not watching.”

“That’s the smartest thing you’ve said all year,” Yennefer mock-gasps. Jaskier clicks his tongue and then a grin tinged in deliberate madness forms on his face. Fuck, she wants to kiss his handsome mug. Fake-madness and all.

“Assuming dearest Marick hasn’t heard anything from his ehhhhhh… bedroom? Stasis chamber? Honestly what the fuck does that man even do when he leaves us to our own devices?”

Yennefer suppresses the laughter bubbling in her chest. Her ridiculous man, honestly.

“Focus!” Geralt snaps.

  
  


“Ah, yeah, right. Sorry. What I wanted to say is, that if we’re lucky and he hasn’t heard us this whole thing could potentially work.”

  
  


* * *

  
  


And work it does. It’s almost surreal how a plan this fucking stupid, with more holes than a brothel in Novigrad, actually _works._ Marick never suspects a thing, or if he does he doesn’t care enough and the very next night they are all sneaking away from that dreary prison. Which ends up being one lone crumbling tower somewhere in lower Nazair, if the dusty and rocky landscape is any indication.

  
  


How anticlimactic.

  
  


Now, it would have been so much more ballad worthy if they ended up being imprisoned in Cintra or even the city of Nilfgaard itself.

  
  


“It’s too easy,” Yennefer says in a hushed voice, well into their third hour of travel, “I don’t like this one bit.”

  
  


Geralt grunts in agreement.

  
  


“What you don’t like the location? The single guard? Me either,” Jaskier stretches his arms, sighing content when his spine clicks. “Think they wanted us to escape?”

  
  


“Absolutely,” Yennefer responds.

  
  


“They want us to take them to Ciri,” Geralt adds. “We won’t do that.”

  
  


“Of course we won’t, Geralt. We can’t put the child at risk,” Yennefer shakes her head, “I can portal us somewhere safe,” she offers, “but it’s very likely Fringilla and her mages will be able to trace it.”

  
  


Oh, that gives Jaskier an idea.

  
  


“Fringilla doesn't know my magical signature,” Jaskier says, “I can, probably, maybe, possibly, open a teeny-weeny portal to Oxenfurt. Maybe. Honestly if we find a tree or something,” he looks around at the rocks that surround them, “I can sap its chaos.”

  
  


“Oxenfurt?” Geralt cocks an eyebrow.

  
  


“Oxenfurt,” Jaskier repeats, “Out of all of us I’m the only one that actually owns a liveable house – no Yenna, your shop in Vengerberg is not a house where three people can lie low.”

  
  


“And Oxenfurt is the perfect place to hide,” Yennefer says, sarcasm thick in her voice.

  
  


“No,” Jaskier admits, “But it’s the only place I am currently aware of that has two beds a bath and a kitchen. And I don’t know about you but I am tired of living in my own filth.”

  
  


“Oxenfurt,” Geralt says, “is not that bad an idea. Hiding in plain sight.”

  
  


“Exactly!” Jaskier beams a smile, “To Oxenfurt then!” he says perhaps a tad louder than he should. Yennefer hisses and Geralt hushes him. “To Oxenfurt then,” Jaskier repeats as whisper-y as he can muster.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! a ton of thanks for all your lovely comments! they made my day brighter
> 
> I'm stuck in quarantine for more than three months now and well isn't that fun. /s   
> I'm mentally exhausted at this point  
> I hope ya'll are doing well and that you stay safe <3 
> 
> I hope yall enjoyed the illustrious Jaskobor and I'm gonna be back with another instalment at some point  
> <3   
> xoxo Bro
> 
> Ps. silver fox Jask has a special place in my heart, evidently


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